


Vale, Undecim

by whovianmuse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Gen, headcanon for the christmas special
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Doctor crouches in front of an old, marbled tombstone, his charcoal-clad tweed jacket and button-down waistcoat in tatters, bearing burn marks from his final battle, leather boots embellished with graveyard dirt as his heels dig into the muddy mountain under which he is meant to be buried.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vale, Undecim

            The Doctor crouches in front of an old, marbled tombstone, his charcoal-clad tweed jacket and button-down waistcoat in tatters, bearing burn marks from his final battle, leather boots embellished with graveyard dirt as his heels dig into the muddy mountain under which he is meant to be buried. A wintry mix of rain and hail falls from the skies of Trenzalore with a violent force, each drop diving into his skin like the tip of a needle, his hair adorned in a scattered crown of ice. Slowly, carefully, he extends a trembling hand and traces the chiseled lettering of the gravestone with his fingertips, dips his thumbnail into the crevice of the second _O_ until it hurts and he is forced to pull back. A deadly poison swims through his veins, weaving its way into his hearts, and although he cannot yet feel it take effect, the Doctor instinctively presses a hand to his chest, clutches at his failing hearts as if to tear them out, to save himself the agony of waiting for the pain to begin, for he knows that Death would relish in his suffering, in a slow and steady torture, would chew his body to bits before finally swallowing him whole.

            It’s an honorable death. It’s one he believes that he deserves, after everything he’s done, after all the pain and suffering he’s caused. And yet still, the Doctor doesn’t want to go.

            “Not here…not like this,” he says, his breath coming out in ragged waves, fingertips digging into the fissures of his tombstone to keep himself steady as he wrenches himself upright and turns his back on the muddy battlefield.

            The Doctor trudges across the deserted wasteland, past never-ending rows of unmarked and prodigal graves alike, and all but stumbles into the warm, inviting console room of the TARDIS, managing only a few weak steps before he collapses against the curved, circular wall near the miniature staircase. The TARDIS whirrs to life at the return of its pilot, dimming the lights to a soft glow and casting the room in shadowed hues of cobalt and cerulean.

            “Thanks, dear,” the Doctor chuckles, resting his hand against the smooth metal wall of the console as he slides to the floor, devoid of the strength to keep himself upright anymore.

            “I know I’ve always asked far too much of you…never truly appreciated you the way that I should, but…could you do just one more thing for me?” he asks of the darkened room, forcing a smile that’s two parts fondness and one part agony. “I’m dying, love, and this time…I’m afraid I won’t be coming back. Could you…could you please lull me to sleep?”

            The Doctor shifts, grimaces as he forces his body back into a sitting position.

            “I need to see her…one last time. I don’t care if it isn’t real,” he breathes.

            As if on cue, the lights overhead fade until he’s cloaked in darkness, and all of the noise is whisked out of the room, replaced with a deafening silence and the turquoise glow of the time rotor against a pitch black backdrop. The Doctor counts to eleven before the room springs back to life, the corners of his lips dragging up into a genuine smile as he stares at the tall, gangly figure standing before him, ginger curls cascading down her shoulders in rivulets.

            “Hello, Raggedy Man,” she says, her pouted, pink lips curving into a brilliant smile. The Doctor chokes on a gasp, on delighted laughter, his breath caught at the back of his throat at the mere sight of her, hearts a tangled mess of finite beats, thrumming in his chest like the wings of a hummingbird. After all this time, after all of the distance he’d put between himself and his past…she’s still capable of doing this to him, of making him feel this way, this shameful combination of elation and wonder and fear and pure affection…and it isn’t even her, not really…but it’s as good as he’s ever going to get, and better than anything he had ever hoped for. After all, who better to guide him to his death than the girl who waited? She was the first face that his face ever saw…and now she’ll be his last.

            A radiating, all-encompassing stab of pain shudders across his entire body for a split-second, and the Doctor winces, clutching at his chest. In an instant, Amelia Pond is kneeling on the floor beside him, one arm laced underneath his neck, gently cradling his head in the palm of her hand, the other wrapped around his torso, her scarlet-painted fingernails lightly digging into his skin. The Doctor slumps further onto her lap, curls into her familiar, comforting embrace, and smiles up at her like an absolute idiot, earning a bittersweet chuckle for his troubles. Amy sniffles, wiping away a stray tear as it slides down the pale, freckled bridge of her nose. The Doctor sighs, tensed muscles uncoiling at her touch, and busies himself with counting them, (though he’d already memorized the number well over a hundred years ago,) connecting the constellations that they form with the scattered moles and speckles that adorn her cheeks and chin. He’d never realized how far gone he truly was until now. Amelia Pond truly is seared onto his hearts.

            “Hang in there, Raggedy Man,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

            “I know,” he says. “The TARDIS knew…knew I’d want to see you again. Clever old girl…she always knows exactly what I need.”

            “I’m right here,” she assures him, weaving her fingertips through the tendrils of his hair, and smoothing them back and out of his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

            “I’m dying, Amelia,” he murmurs, wincing again as the pain winds its way up his left arm, paralyzing him for a few frightening moments. The pain of dying is different from the pain of regeneration…it’s slower, less gentle, and a little more careless, just as he thought it would be. The Doctor’s eyes lock onto Amy’s, burning every detail of her expression into his memory as he pours everything he couldn’t ever and wouldn’t ever tell her into that stare…everything he’d been too stubbornly, foolishly fearful to say, and hopes like hell that she understands.

            “I know,” she says, breath catching in her throat as she holds back a sob. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he whispers, tracing the curves of her cheek with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve had a long old life, out there among the stars. I’ve seen and done more in one lifetime than most have in a million. I’ve done a lot of good, I suppose….but I’ve also caused a lot of pain and suffering, more…more than I would care to admit, and that’s…why this is justified.”

            Amy’s hold on him intensifies and her lips twist into a reproachful scowl.

            “Your death is never going to be justified, Doctor,” she says, her tone shifting from concerned and sympathetic to stern and disapproving. “You are better than this, worth _more_ than this. I could understand, maybe, if you actually _wanted_ to die…you’re well within your rights to want that kind of peace and closure after such a difficult and lonely life, but I know that, somewhere deep down inside of you, you don’t really want to go…and you know that there is no reason that you should have to. The laws of regeneration can be unraveled and rewritten, just as time can. If there was ever a way to get around that rule, I know you, out of everyone, could figure it out. You owe it to yourself to try, to keep travelling, to keep having adventures, to keep running like mad from monsters and purging the universe of its villains. You owe it to the universe, to every person and creature and planet you’ve ever rescued, so that no matter how hopeless their situation might seem, no matter how much peril they’re in, they know that you exist, and are coming to save them. You owe it to your future companions, to keep meeting seemingly ordinary people, showing them the universe and inspiring them to discover their full potential, to become something bigger and better than they ever thought they could be. You need them, just as I needed you.”

            Amy pauses, casts her eyes downward for a moment and gasps, sending the Doctor into a brief state of panic. He raises an eyebrow in question, and tries to argue, his words coming out in a flurry of chaotic, unintelligible mumbling, but Amy presses a finger to his lips to silence him. Slowly, delicately, she curls her fingers into the palm of his hand, and raises it so that he can see the brilliant, golden glow radiating from the surface of his skin.

            “You owe it to yourself to _live_ , Raggedy Man,” she says, flashing him a terrifyingly beautiful smile. “You don’t have to die here. Trenzalore doesn’t have the right to stake claim on your grave. No single place in the universe does. There’s nothing to fear anymore, because you are going to survive this. Time can be rewritten.”

            The Doctor gives her a weak smile, surrendering to that familiar old twist of pain that means every cell in his body is splitting open and reforming into something new…into _someone_ new…and the last thing that the Doctor remembers before the unendurable agony submerges his consciousness are Amelia Pond’s soft, pink lips pressed sweetly against his forehead.

 

• • •

 

            Several hours later, the Doctor wakes in a daze, clutching the side of his head with a pair of older, slightly more worn and wrinkled hands. He takes a moment to examine them, to rub them along the length of his brand new face, to take in the details first-hand (oh dear god, his sense of humor is still dead awful…and now he’s devolved to using puns) and hope that nothing went horribly wrong. Smaller forehead, less of a chin…well, that’s a good sign.

            “I’m alive?” he asks, noting how different his voice sounds. Stronger, deeper…a bit older and more confident, like it used to be. He thinks he quite likes the change.

            “Sure are…if a bit disheveled and unkempt,” Clara muses, traipsing out from behind the TARDIS console and sporting a cheeky grin.

            “Now, I know this might be a bit of a shock for you—” he starts, but Clara cuts him off with a knowing smile.

            “It’s fine, you warned me that this might happen one day, so at least I was prepared for it…still a bit weird, though,” she says, giving him a once over.

            “My voice, it’s…not quite the same,” he observes.

            “No, not quite as whingy as it used to be,” Clara chuckles. The Doctor puffs out his lips in an indignant pout, and Clara proceeds to laugh.

            “That’s slightly less adorable now,” she notes, and then adds, “and actually, a bit more menacing…so you’ve got that whole _Oncoming Storm_ business sorted.”

            “Well, good. Menacing is good, I suppose. How’s the face?” he asks, preparing for the worst. Clara purses her lips, circles him once to get the full view.

            “It’s certainly different…but a good different, I’d say,” she decides.

            “Am I ginger?” he asks, hopeful.

            “No, you’ve actually gone a bit gray.”

            “Damn,” he glowers. “Ah well, could’ve been worse, I suppose.”

            “It’s not bad…it’s just going to take a little while to get used to it,” Clara says, moving in closer now that she’s sure it’s really him. Her smile falters a bit, and her expression shifts to one of concern.

            “I thought I’d lost you for a moment there,” she says, frowning slightly.

            “I thought I’d lost me, too,” he answers honestly. “But I survived… _we_ survived yet another mad adventure, and you know what? I think the cure to all of our problems lies in having another one. What do you say? Do you still want to travel with me, now that I’ve got a different face?”

            Clara’s lips curve into a brilliant smile, and she nearly tips the Doctor over as she throws her arms around his shoulders, and pulls him into a tight hug.

            “Of course I do, you silly old man,” she teases. “Where to, next?”

            The Doctor plugs in a set of coordinates and pulls the nearest lever, quirking an eyebrow and fixing Clara with a devilish grin as he answers her query.

            “We’re going to find Gallifrey.”


End file.
